"One moment." Cheniston's voice was harsh, and he moistened his lips before he spoke. "Weren't you armed? Couldn't you have—have made a fight for it?"
For the first time Anstice lost control of himself. The dark blood rushed to his brow and his eyes flashed with anger.
"Good God, man, do you suppose if I'd been armed we should have submitted tamely? As a matter of fact, the brutes who attacked us in the first place seized my revolver before I had a chance to draw it ... and though I'm pretty tough, when it came to a struggle with those Indian devils they were like steel—iron—anything you choose to compare them with."
"I know—their muscles are marvellous—especially the Hill-men." His tone held a note of apology. "Of course, if you had had half a chance—but"—suddenly his voice changed, grew suspicious—"you had a revolver, in the end?"
"Yes. Miss Ryder's. They did not suspect her of carrying a weapon, you see, and it was a tiny one her uncle had given her, more as a toy than as a serious protection."
"She couldn't get at it to use it?"
"No. We were bound as well as blindfolded, you know." He spoke grimly. "Luckily Miss Ryder had the presence of mind to say nothing about it till we were alone in the hut, our hands untied. Then she gave it to me, and we found to our dismay that there was only one cartridge left."
"How was that?" He spoke quickly, but there was no suspicion in his tone now.
"Miss Ryder explained that she had been practising shooting with her uncle and had forgotten to reload. But"—he paused—"even had it been fully charged, I'm afraid our fate would have been unchanged."
Cheniston rose suddenly, took a few aimless steps across the floor, and then sank down on the bed again almost in his former position. In front of him Anstice stood motionless, his hands, clenched now, still in his pockets, his eyes the only live feature in the grey pallor of his face.